


Trouble Your Rest

by courtneythenerd



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Established Relationship, Gun Violence, Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, Love Letters, M/M, historically inaccurate af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:59:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12340443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtneythenerd/pseuds/courtneythenerd
Summary: John's recovery is long and painful. At least he has Alexander's letters.





	Trouble Your Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Whoever reads the letters and notices the "my dearest, Angelica" homages, we are now officially best friends. Ha.

_ My dearest, Laurens, _

_ The time that has passed since you departed for South Carolina has been, to put it eloquently, a drag. The sweetness of our victory at Yorktown has gone bitter in the wake of your absence. Although, I am beginning to suspect that the sweetness came from your presence alone. I like to believe that our commanders know what they’re doing, but I think it odd they’d send a man of such strength and brilliance as you, my dear friend Laurens, away.  _

_ I long for your expeditious return to me. And I hope you manage to avoid that Devil on your journey.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Alexander  _

X

John Laurens is petty enough to consider August 27 the worst day of his life. 

It could’ve been worse. John knows this. He acknowledges this.  It could’ve been  _ much  _ worse. It just so happens that John does not  _ care _ . 

It was bad enough being dispatched to South Carolina, and Beaufort, no less. John had no desire to go anywhere near his hometown. One of the very few good things that came of the war was that John had become his own person. Away from his father’s friends. And away from his father. 

The journey from Beaufort to Charleston is far, but not far enough. John did not want to run the risk of his father deciding to become even more “involved” with John’s participation in the war. 

Henry was already angry at John. 

To be fair, Henry is  _ always  _ at John. He seems to be angry at the fact that John’s mother gave birth to him. But he had been singularly unsatisfied with John for the past few months. 

How could he not be? Henry had only been told of John’s “close” relationship with Alexander Hamilton half a dozen times since the start of the war. 

John didn’t feel like explaining anything to Henry, especially not when it came to matters of Alexander. Alexander was the one thing that John could truly  _ have. _

When John managed to make it to Beaufort without having to go directly through Charleston, he breathed a premature sigh of relief. 

After all, this was only supposed to be something of a security detail at Chehaw Point. 50 men, a large cannon. That’s all. Gist had  _ promised  _ that would be it. 

“It’ll be quick and painless, John,” Commander Gist had said. “British troops are dragging themselves out of Charleston, so they’ll probably just hang their heads and leave.”

And John had believed him. Because Gist was John’s commander. Why wouldn’t he believe him?

X

_ My dearest, Laurens, _

_ The message of your journey-or rather, your colorful descriptions of your journey thus far--is by far the only thing that has brightened my unusually irritable disposition (and yes, I said unusually. I would appreciate that you acknowledge the truth of my sunniness).  _

_ I am most thankful that you managed to evade the Devil’s sight at this moment. Though he may write hateful words, remember that envy and regret are his foremost problems, and that you, dearest John, have nothing to account for in his journey of self-assuage. _

_ John--I know I’ve often written of my desire to have you return. And you have attempted to gently explain away my frustration with this war and the distance between us. But I am afraid that I will continue to be out of sorts until you return. You have become an integral part of my being, John Laurens. To lose that part is to lose part of my soul. _

_ Yours, _

_ Alexander _

X

Before he had gotten the pleasure of shooting him, John had made sure to call Charles Lee had sore loser approximately 58 times. And Alexander, fully utilizing his loquacious nature, had managed to call Charles Lee an inexperienced, dimwitted sore loser at least 100 times. They’d both agreed that there would never be anyone as disgraceful as Charles Lee.

Well, John can officially say British commander William Brereton is much more disgraceful than Charles Lee. 

John knew that there were still British forces hoping for a fight even after Cornwallis’s surrender at Yorktown.  But after this much time, most of the British forces had gone along and surrendered as well. And Brereton had not made any indication that he was planning to stage a full-out attack. 

So when Brereton ordered a strike against John and any other American forces at Chehaw Point, John and his men were unprepared. 

And John got shot in his fucking side. While riding his  _ horse _ . It would’ve been completely humiliating if it weren’t busy being life-threatening. 

In the days after, when John is desperate to make himself feel less sad and lonely, John leans on the fact that they fought to the best of their abilities. And, at the end of the day, they all managed to survive. 

It helps. A little.

X

_ On Tuesday the 27th my son was shot in a gunfight against British troops retreating from South Carolina. While my son survived his wounding, it will forever serve as a reminder of the painful sacrifice of war and the dedication our family has to freedom from British rule . . .  _

X

The most irritating part about getting shot is actually not the physical pain. For John, the most irritating part about getting shot is the fact that Henry got to write a letter notifying  _ everyone _ that John had been shot. 

It’s not that there is necessarily anything  _ wrong  _ with the letter. It’s about as nice as Henry Laurens could ever be.  It’s that Henry sounds  _ far  _ too proud to declare that his son had nearly died on the battlefield.

A battlefield that wasn’t even supposed to be a battlefield. Because this was supposed to be about  _ security _ . 

X

“Be grateful that you’re even  _ alive,  _ young man,” the nurse says sternly. “Not only were you shot, but the wound was becoming infected. How long did you lay out in the field?”

John shrugs and immediately regrets the movement. The nurse looks at him as if he were an idiot. 

“ ’M not particularly sure, ma’am,” John answers, too tired to hide the southern accent. “But it was far too long.”

The nurse nods, softening. 

“Well, we were able to get you patched up well and good. It’s going to be pretty rough, but you’ll be alright.” 

John smiles weakly. “Thank you, ma’am.” 

The nurse nods, gives John a soft smile, and gets up to leave the room. 

“Oh! I almost forgot! You received another letter. More than likely from the usual sender, I assume?” 

X

_ John, _

_ I am not sure if you will read this, or how soon--I understand your recovery will be a long and arduous one. I understand the importance of your rest (yes, I understand the bizarreness of my understanding, for I have admittedly never understood the reason for my own rest.) But, John, I know that I will never forgive myself if I missed the opportunity to see your face. _

_ I am writing to let you know that I am coming to Beaufort. I hear your protests already, and I have elected to ignore them. Because, the fact of the matter is, I love you more than any possibility of promotion, preservation of honor, or expectation of behavior. News of your wounding--news of possible infection, of nurses and the doctor not knowing what your outcome might be--were like a shot to my own heart.  _

_ I know my absence will be scrutinized--and my presence not completely appreciated by some. But I want all to remember this one thing: no matter how I deep I look into my own self, I find no semblance of myself that cares more about public scrutiny than the well being of my dearest friend.  _

_ Yours forever, _

_ Alexander _

X

Alexander arrives exactly two days after his letter does. 

“Alexander . . .”

“Nope .  . .”

“You’ll be in trouble . . .”

“Which I’ve already said I don’t care about . . .”

For some reason, John almost believed that Alexander wouldn’t show. Somehow, he thought a strong--or at least decent--sense of self-preservation would kick in, and Alexander would know to just stay put, wait for John’s return, and be celebrated as a war hero in the meantime. 

But, really, does that even  _ sound  _ like Alexander?

“Really, Alex, you didn’t have to . . .”

“John? Be quiet and let me be here.”

Here, damn near cradling John in his arms, with his chest pressed against John’s back, and John’s hair brushing his lips. Here, comforting John after indulging John in determining how far John can actually walk. So far, the nurse’s idea of rehabilitating John has been yelling at John if she feels as though he’s trying to walk too far or too fast. 

Alexander’s been the only one allowing John to really recover. Just don’t tell the nurse he said that. 

John looks up at Alex and then over at the stack of letters Alex has sent him. He laughs softly.

“You know, my father is coming down here tomorrow. He won’t be happy to see you.”

“He’s not happy to see  _ himself _ , John,” Alex quips. “I fear him not.” 

John sighs and leans further into Alex. Alex wraps an arm around John’s chest. And, true to the Alexander Hamilton form of not caring about consequences, Alex leans down and kisses John softly on the lips. 

Alexander will get them both executed one day. John knows this. They both just Alex’s letters alone can get them thrown into jail. It just so happens that John does not care. And Alexander has never cared. 

There are far worse ways to die. 

  
  
  



End file.
